when women speak of eternity, my masculine immortality says: do i have to?! why? because my masculine mortality didn’t.*

that a prophet’s nation is not without honour, but among the nation’s
ownership of itself in what’s being compared as nation-defining,
and thus dishonour with a nation’s history claiming more than
the nation’s honour in terms of taught examples lost
in emotion guaranteed by pride and jealousy,
so telling the history of poland
via the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
as defining poles...
nest well in a foreign tongue in order to keep your mother’s,
should your father’s execution of foreign tounging disgrace your mother...
but no talk of honour... should a nation’s honour be
defaced to localise individualism...
thus localise individualism and deface to entrust such a nation
with the concept of globalisation that f. d. r. could have oppossed
in the riddle of isolationalism that ended the great depression
and the phobia of the last years of misguided capitalism
carving the futurism of domestication of anything but the sexually adequate:
consciously-careful animalism of grunt and snorkle and bitten snouts
of the animalism correcting the 90 angle into 3.2 children multiplier
as perfected village people: 4kg of potato, 3 children, 2 pints of milk...
34 sundays kneeling in a church in aid of worship to dogmatise the pyramidal prism
as an aversion to staircases nonetheless climbed
to echo arthritis oiled for the perfected propaganda caste.

.                             mono     automaton
                          q  u  a  s  i  o  m  n  i;
in­to root of the crux
                                                i will
                       invoke,
a black cardinal,
  that challenges
  all self-righteous popes,
and all self-imposing
popes;
   are my words not bread?
are my words not wine?
then who claims authority
over the justification
   of the authenticity of
            recruiting people
toward the position of "power"?
   who's if not the dead borthers
feed your near cannibalistic mouths?
        who feeds the living,
when who feeds the living,
are dead?!
          necrophilia; rampant!!!
cry...                 asylum! asylum!
who's over-reacting?
   some irish will tell ye'...
    i hate the irish...
   i have a fetish for hating them;
esp. those
settled in england;
  those ******* i hate the most;
why?
    i was wearing a german army
shirt in an irish pub, and
what did the bartender say?
i can't serve you.
   you engaged in the second
world war, paddy?!
******* potato harvester
     ginger-dangle-bell of
a hope... that never comes...
just the drowning ginger ***
who's abode was and will
           be the belfast dim-wit
known as
                              the titanic;
**** me, i'm not even born &
bred english and i already find
the irish worthy of considering
genocidal tendencies...
scots? **** me, shoot me
to a pub for a whisk,
and some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
the welsh?
      what, the ultra-german spelling
machine that's not even
comparable to germans?
   i'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all...
rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)...
the ear-ish?
       i ******* hate the *****...
and i'm not even english to begin with...
some people you immediately get
to love...
   aussies, the finns...
                 and some people you
immediately get to hate...
                       the irish, the germans;
it's a shame though,
   i learned this pathos
   from acquiring the english language...
i.e. "assimilating" into
  the culture, p.s. the i.r.a. attacks,
so yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh,
   and a paedo to ring
             the bell for friday's mass...
   f
                            uck
             me,
            coming off the rocking chair,
next you'll find me so much so
assimilated that i'll be calling
it the irish and the northern monkeys...
vs. the loondish
               and the southern fairies /
                                                   pansies;
i suppose if you're ever
going to assimilate, hold to the local
customs (when in rome,
         do as the romans do),
**** me, it's great,
at least i can finally realise that
   there's no greater "racism" than in
the intra- realm, as oppossed to
the inter- realm...
    once again... it's not racism,
   it's "racism"... or a way to get along;
s.j.w.b.g.l.t.q.t.+ sycophant?
    drunk like a skunk... you walked
into my bedroom, you'd get an aura
of a brewery...
                  i can't believe i had
to learn english, and have to succumb
to outer-london prooper english
stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid;
but at least the irish made it plainly
obvious for me to establish,
   giving my transcendental approach
to diacritical marks, which made me sound
posh english, and them,
  my synthetically inherited enemy;
which is nice, breaking away from
hating the russians and the germans;
if i go to a pub?
   i only drink guinness...
  why? it doesn't taste the same in a can
or in an export bottle...
    you need to drink guinness in a pint glass.